


The Other Angel of Thursday

by SteRhubarb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:19:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteRhubarb/pseuds/SteRhubarb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is human. Sam is health-conscious. Dean is visited by an angel who seems extremely familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Angel of Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a random, shitty, plotless piece of writing I started way back when and left on my computer to gather dust.  
> Not sure where I was going with it, so I'm shoving it up here just to get rid of it. Maybe someone'll enjoy it, I don't know.

Dean is sat on the end of the motel bed, the middle out of three, in the room they had rented to work on the most recent case, when it happens. 

He’s staring at the wall opposite, lost in his thoughts and waiting for Sam and Castiel to return from food shopping.

The pair of them had both gotten fed up of Dean’s ‘chips beer and pie’ diet a couple weeks back now, and they both love those funny little farmer’s market places. Dean’s had to occupy hours of days when they wander off to touch ripe fruit and squeeze fresh baked loaves, or whatever the hell it is they do there. 

He’s never understood Sam’s need to grope food before buying it. Granted that, when they come back, it’s always with some class-A grub, but with the car requiring no repairs and the case research all taken care of by _Professor Sammy_ , Dean is always left to just… fester. In everything that has come before.

He’s bouncing between the equally concerning issues of Sam and his reluctance to take up hunting again, and Cas’ current fallen from grace dilemma, when a sound like a whip crack hits the air in front of him, forcing him to jump backwards.

He slams his hands against his ears as a long, ear-splitting noise tears through the room, and pushes himself to his elbows to see the space in the centre of the motel room rip open.

He gropes beneath his pillow for the demon knife, releasing one ear to the sound which the apparent portal makes, and yells aloud at the searing pain. The sound of him is drowned out by the sheer pitch of the thing.

And then, as if all in one go, the portal spits out a being onto the carpet, and closes itself back up, quick as a flash and with a crack as sharp as the one it entered on. 

Dean continues yelling for a second in the silence it leaves behind, and then closes his mouth and lowers his hand.

He peers to the end of the bed and reels back at the sight of what appears to be a woman on her knees. Gripping the knife in his hand, he brings it out from beneath the pillow and he climbs up off the bed.

Its head is bent over a pool of blood dripping onto the carpet when he speaks. 

“Hey!” The thing jumps at his voice and raises a small bloodied hand, palm first, towards Dean. 

A small noise, a whimper, escapes it before it lurches forward and vomits onto the carpet.

“Hey! Can you speak?” Dean urges, stepping closer but taking a firmer grip on the knife. “Who are you?”

It gives another shudder at his words and pushes the long dark hair from around its head to look up at Dean. He notices that it is indeed a woman, her pale face smeared with a mixture of dried and fresh blood, and dark circles beneath eyes that strike Dean as terrible and awesome at the same time. He kneels closer to her without thinking about it.

“Jesus,” he breathes, cautiously taking hold of one shoulder after noticing the slight swaying motion it makes. “What the fuck happened to you, huh?”

Its mouth quirks up briefly at the corners in a weak attempt at a smile, and then raises a dirty hand to Dean’s face. Her fingertips brush his chin before slipping away as it huffs out a breath.

“Dean Winchester.” It croaks in a tone that Dean considers as satisfied, before it passes out. Whatever it is, its damn lucky Dean had a hold of its shoulder in time to prevent a violent meeting with the ground.

_____________________________

Just over an hour later, Dean has methodically pried away the carpet in the corner of the motel room in order to apply a variation of traps and sigils to the floorboards, before placing the unconscious female shaped thing within them.

At this point, he reasons, the blood and vomit that has engrained itself into the very fibres of the goddamn carpet is gonna rack up a crazy bill, so might as well trash the place a little more and then high-tail it out of there in the middle of the night.

Regardless of his contingency plan, Dean is taking a crack at cleaning up some of the blood and vomit at the foot of the bed when a groan from the responsible creature makes him reach for his knife again. He drops the rag he was using to scrub at the floor and resigns himself to just swapping beds with Sam. 

“Dean Winchester,” he hears the thing repeat and then sigh in that same satisfied way from earlier. It tips its head back against Sam’s pillow, which Dean had placed behind it out of consideration. “I did it.”

Dean moves closer, perches himself on the end of Sam’s bed and turns the knife over in his hands. “Did what? Who are you, and all that crap?”

“I am… a friend.” It meets his eyes with an insistent calmness, as if to secure the honesty of the words, and then lifts one of its hands to brush the blood-clotted hair from its face.

“Oh, yeah? What kind of friend bursts into a room and almost obliterates your goddamn eardrums?”

“If I could have turned the volume down for you, Dean, I assure you, I would have.” She dips her head slightly, and something about the motion, paired with what she says just seems so familiar to Dean that it stalls him.

He slides off the end of the bed until he’s kneeling at the very edge of the demon trap and softens his voice to repeat his question. “Who are you?”

“Nothing that any of these particular traps could contain, but I wasn’t planning on leaving your side, anyway.”

Its breathing is laboured, it escapes in harsh wheezes that quickly turn into violent coughing before it turns its head to the side and spits a wad of phlegm and blood onto the floorboard. “Apologies,” she coughs.

“You gonna answer any of my questions straight? Or will I just have to exorcise your ass and hope you weren’t some ‘dreams-come-true’ fairy?” He huffs, losing his patience.

“I will answer any and all questions as honestly as I can, Dean. I’ve already told you, I am a friend, there is no need for knives and demon traps.”

“Alright then, why won’t you just tell me what the hell you are?” He urges.

“Malakh, ángelos, engel,” she offers and then smiles at the complete lack of recognition in Dean’s eyes. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean sits back on his heels and deflates in disappointment. “Angels don’t throw up blood,” he counters, but she just gives a wry smirk and licks the corner of her mouth of dry blood.

“You are right, Dean, but you of all people must know that not all Angels stay Angels.”

He’s not even all that shocked at the words; it’s more the pain that it stirs up. All the guilt and helplessness that just even glancing at Cas makes him feel. “You’re falling?”

“It would appear so.” She flinches as she tries to push herself up from where she’s slumped back into the corner, then clutches a wrist to her chest. 

“What happened to you?” He asks, distracting himself from the urge to take her wrist in his hands and fix it up, clean her and bandage her and a very minute urge to hold her. That small urge grows when she meets his eyes again, those shocking, overwhelming eyes, and so, so blue. 

“I fell in love with a human.”

And God, does Dean know that story. He dips his head and sighs, but she reaches for his chin and tips it back up again to smile at him. “I’m not sorry, Dean. “

“Who are you?” He whispers, because he’s not imagining it, there’s something familiar there. He can see it, feel it, sense it with every fibre of his being, he knows who this is.

It’s not often that Dean is so caught up in something to miss the sound of his Baby pulling up, but it appears this is one of those rare moments.

He stands as Sam and Cas walk into the room and both freeze as the sight of the beat up and bloodied girl in the corner. Sam throws the bags he carries down on one of the beds and paces over with the usual “what the hell, Dean?”, but it’s Cas’ reaction that concerns Dean. 

Cas stays in the doorway still holding the handle and staring with a mixture of horror and utter confusion furrowing his brow. When Dean calls his name, Cas looks to him and points a finger accusingly at the woman.

“Hello, Castiel,” she beams, chin high and eyes bright with awe and adoration. 

“Dean, who is this?” Cas demands, a hint of fear in his voice as he moves further into the room, leaving the door ajar like he might need a quick getaway.

“Castiel, Brother, be calm.” She says it like a suggestion, but reaches out a hand to him and within a second Cas’ shoulders slump like a huge weight has been removed from them and he sighs, slow and long. The pain, however, does not leave his face.

“What are you?” He asks again. 

She glances towards Dean quickly, before returning her gaze to Cas to answer. “’ _The Angel of Thursday_ ’,” she quotes, “’ _and thy nameth be Castiel_.’”

Dean backs up, and when his calves connect with the end of a bed, drops down onto it and runs a hand down over his face. 

“I don’t understand.” Cas breathes, blinking away the tears that threaten and not meeting anyone’s astonished gaze.

“I am you, Castiel, as much as you are I. I was created to become everything that you failed to be,” she says simply, frowning when the tears begin running down Cas’ face. “But you tread such an interesting path, brother. I could not resist following you down it. It seems we are destined for it.”

“I don’t-“ he gasps. “I don’t u-understand. I can’t-“

Sam had enough panic-attacks when he was a kid that Dean recognizes Cas’ hyperventilating at once, the distress on his face, and paces over to grip his shoulders firmly, ground him.

“Cas, c’mon, man. Breathe.” Dean urges, quiet but firm, rubbing a thumb against his shoulder. “Sit down, man.”

“So you’re a human now?” Sam chimes in from where he had lowered himself onto a bed to take in the rush of information. “What happened to you?”

“Sam Winchester,” it acknowledges him with a knowing smile, “I am not a human, no. But neither am I in full command of my grace. It is a slow and steady fall into humanity if I stay on the path I intend to.”

“I can’t let you do that-“ Cas says loudly, trying to stand up but being held firm by Dean.

“Sam, get her cleaned up in the bathroom, would you? I need some time with Cas.” Dean nods a head at the other apparent Castiel and Sam nods his agreement.

Sam helps her up, and after a small stumble, just scoops her up like a rag doll and carries her into the bathroom. She smiles up into his face the entire way there, which makes Dean rolls his eyes. 

She certainly has a way of Cas about her. That awe he used to look at everything with. Now he just stares off into the distance, answers in clipped tones, shrugs at things.

The shaking has died down, and Dean looks to Cas to find him staring down at his own hands in horror. 

He rubs his thumb and forefinger together in an intrigued way that reflects the old Castiel back into him, before he speaks. “This is all wrong.”

“You’re telling me!” Dean snaps and Cas’ head whips up to meet his gaze, making him regret saying anything at all. 

“She can’t _be_ me, and yet,” he takes a deep breath, “she _is_. My grace resides inside her. I know it.”

“She said they made her to do the things that you didn’t, whatever that means?”

“But that isn’t how grace works;” Cas shakes his head insistently. “It can’t be given to another. I don’t understand how she can be.”

“Well, can’t you just ask?”

Cas drops his hand to hang between his knees and worries at his bottom lip for a moment before meeting Dean’s eyes.

“I’m afraid.” He says so honestly that Dean has to look away.


End file.
